


For my Bones Have Found a Place

by Summertime_saddness



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Developing Friendships, Discussion of Abortion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, References to Depression, References to Illness, Scars, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summertime_saddness/pseuds/Summertime_saddness
Summary: The cabin is tiny, but there’s an ax in the corner, a windswept fireplace cold from disuse, and a bedroom with piles of fabrics and linen in a chest under a bed with a moldy mattress. It’s perfect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A semi indulgent "what if" fic. Sansa and Theon didn't run into Brienne and instead made it halfway to the wall on foot. I could be possibly mucking up how long it takes to get to the wall from Winterfell but, whatever! Other characters do not show up until later chapters. I've never read the books (yet!) so I'm basing the charterers off of the show only. 
> 
> See end of the chapter for more detailed notes about the tags.

They are on their way to the wall, to Jon, when they see it. It’s impossible, an illusion on their weary minds and frozen bodies. They are past the point of talking now, clutching at each other for warmth and support, Theon turns wide eyes to Sansa’s, the question mirrored in his bright blues. 

It’s a cabin, small and dark tucked away between the towering trees and pressed up against the heavy rocks that climb up the small hill that the cabin lies beneath. There’s ivy growing along its roof, brown and frozen, and Sansa can see that one of the windows is smashed inward.

But they are miles away from the wall on foot and their bodies are weak and half frozen. Theon turns his gaze back to Sansa’s and she nods jerkily at him. 

The cabin is tiny, but there’s an axe in the corner, a windswept fireplace cold from disuse, and a bedroom with piles of fabrics and linen in a chest under a bed with a moldy mattress. It’s perfect.

 

Weeks later, Sansa awakens to the sound of scratching at her door, her eyes blink sleepily against the morning sun streaming in through the windows. She gets out of the bed slowly, her bones straining as her limbs stretch out, her left shoulder pops loudly in the quiet of the room. 

She cringes as her knee, swollen with fluid like it so often is, bends awkwardly as she steps towards her bedroom door, the cold penetrating through the thin fabric of her nightgown, pimpling her skin with goosebumps. 

“Hello,” Sansa whispers, opening the wooden door slowly as the cat waltzes into her room with an indignant meow. Sansa smiles as it wraps itself around her ankle, butting her calves with it’s soft grey head. 

A fire is already burning in the hearth of the cabin, the smell of something roasting filling the small space with its hearty smoke. She smiles softly to herself as she listens to the faint sounds of wood being chopped outside, eyeing the misshapen but sturdy wooden mugs of goat’s milk resting on the table next to two sets of plates. The table is covered with an old cloth, its blue and grey color so faded that the old pattern is hardly visible. The whole is cabin is like this: outfitted with things that are old, faded, and broken but there are heavy bars on all the door, a fire warming the small space, food cooking, and Sansa’s careful embroidery on the curtains on the windows. It’s home. 

 

“I caught some fish this morning, it might be good for supper.” Theon says over breakfast, the goat’s milk, now warmed and spiced with cinnamon, fills the air with a sweet smell. 

Sansa looks up from her book, something wordy about lakes and Northern history that they had found. Theon is looking at both her and not, blue eyes somewhere far away and safe from Sansa’s own gaze, a careful defocusing of the eyes that Sansa still finds unnerving. 

“That sounds wonderful, thank you.” She says softly. 

Theon meets her eyes then, a small smile lifts the corner of his mouth. His eyes track her as she wraps the heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders. 

“Don’t look at me like that please.” She says, turning her eyes back to the book.

Theon doesn’t answer but Sansa feels the pressure of his gaze lift from her body. 

 

Sansa sometimes is convinced that she dreamt this place. This cabin deep in the icy woods that they had discovered. That her broken body is really lying back in that bed in Winterfell with Ramsey, her mind finally breaking open like an egg, her satanity spilling over like runny yoke over the bedsheets. That at any moment, Ramsey will turn the corner, grab hair at the root, push her down on her knees with a crack, and she’ll awaken and it’ll all begin again. 

There are times she can feel his harsh fingers on her skin, or the sharp edge of the knife he liked to bring into their bed, it’s razor tip leaving lines of blood that spread over her pale skin like tiny rivers. 

Sometimes the hatred she feels boils inside of her, churning in her belly like black bile, threatening to tear upwards through her throat and choke the world around her with it’s inky strength. Sometimes she wants to let it.

 

“I want you to teach me how to fight.” She says to Theon one morning. It’s raining out and Sansa hasn’t slept properly in days. 

Theon looks at her warily from the stove, letting the log in his arms drop carefully down into the flames. 

“OK,” he says slowly. Like Sansa is a wild animal he needs to be careful of. 

Yes. Sansa wants to scream, I am and you should be.

They start off small, and Sansa’s body protests with every turn, swipe, and jab. She fights through it, only stopping when Theon begs her too, pointing to the droplets of blood that litter the snow around her. She doesn’t bother searching for the exit points, her skin is a like an old patch quilt, every seam about to burst.

That night, Sansa cooks the rabbit that Theon had caught as elaborately as she can manage. It’s a thank you, and Theon seems to understand it, smiling softly as he eats and promising to catch more the next time he goes hunting. 

The wind howls outside and the cat mews piteously from under the table and Sansa lets the calm rush over her.

She should hate Theon. And sometimes she does. Hates his betrayal, his piteous empty face, is foolish lies that caused her and her family to suffer. She watches him with cold eyes as he pithers around their small cabin, sneers at his trembling fingers when he tries to cut up the meat to boil, scoffs at his pathetic attempts to appear human.

She remembers what Ramsey told her: Theon, no, Reek now was an animal, a rat, a worm, a creature to give scraps too, who would eat the waste from a chamber pot for survival. 

But Theon now Reek built bars for all their doors, watched over their home when Sansa felt scared, made her meals when she was too weak to get out of bed, woke her gently when the nightmares made her mumble in her sleep. 

Ramsey was wrong about Theon. Ramsey was wrong about so many things. 

 

 

Sansa jerks awake, heart racing as her body struggles to push itself into wakefulness. She frowns, she wasn’t having a nightmare, and the house is quiet save for the faint howling of the winter wind outside. 

Then she hears it: a moan, low and painful.Then the scratching sound of nails on the floor, too loud to be the cat’s. It makes her chest constrict painfully. 

She rises out of bed slowly, her body feeling cumbersome and unfamiliar. She ignores it’s aching protests as she makes her way to Theon’s sleeping form, curled up next the fireplace.

He’s moving, limbs jerking sharply as he wrestles with an invisible demon. From the flames of the fire, Sansa can make out his sharp face, shiny and pale with sweat, his eyes squeezed painfully tight. 

It is not the first time she’s done this, Sansa stooping down to gently place her hand on Theon’s sweat soaked forehead, letting the pads of her fingertips smooth his cramped brow. 

“Theon,” She whispers, as he whimpers at the contact. “It’s Sansa.”

He jerks wildly before his eyes fly open, looking blindly around the room as Sansa kneels patiently near him but far enough in case he reacts violently. 

“Theon,” she repeated, louder this time. “You’re alright, we’re in the cabin.”

Theon’s eyes snap to her’s, not milky and unfocused, but clear and bright. He stares at her, eyes wide, drinking her in like Sansa is the answer to question he’s been asking for years. Sansa fidgets under the scrutiny but doesn’t look away, she understands this need, this compulsion to confirm that this is not a dream. 

“You’re alright.” Sansa repeats quiety. 

Theon nods, finally turning his eyes away to stare up at the wooden beams of their ceiling. 

Sansa doesn’t bother asking him what he was dreaming about. She already knows. 

Theon doesn’t go back to sleep that night, Sansa can tell by the redness that circles his bruised eyes as he warms the milk for their breakfast. She says nothing, but she takes over the cooking for the rest of the day and encourages him to rest after the morning chores are done. 

 

It’s too cold for a proper garden but a few months in, when the fear of being found begins to lessen, they venture out to the surrounding land in search of plants to uproot to their meager plot of land. 

The land that encircles the cabin is beautiful, filled with dark dense bushes, think stalks of naked trees and a steady cold stream in which Sansa bathes her face, letting the icy water refresh her. They find edible roots to bowl for soup, potatoes hidden in the dirt, small and hard. Theon catches fish in the river while Sansa peels their prizes, her tired body already protesting the new movements, letting their dirt marked skin circle to the snow littered ground. 

Their eyes meet over their tasks and Sansa offers Theon a tiny smile, her heart like a seed who can smell the spring. Theon’s mouth curves upward in response and Sansa thanks for the gods for their small mercy.

 

“We can’t be that far from the Wall.” Theon says quietly over a small dinner of roasted roots and rabbit. 

Sansa looks up from her mug of warm water, eyebrows furrowed.

“What makes you think that?”

Theon fidgets, the direct question already too much for him. Sansa feels a mixture of pride and pity as she watches him fight it, turning his face too look her in the eyes. The months in the cabin have been good for them both.

“We walked in the right direction, I’m sure of it.” He continued. “We walked for days, and the wall is only a few days ride from Winterfell. I think we’re in this crevice see, like a incline in the mountain, so we can’t see past it. I bet the wall is closer than we think.”

Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes leaving Theon’s to stare in the crackling flames of the fire. 

“I think we should think about leaving, at least before the cold sets in in earnest.” 

Sansa is already shaking her head, fingers trembling as she brings them together in her lap so Theon won’t see. She thinks he does anyway because he glances away, letting the quiet of the night wash over them both 

“I think we should wait,” Sansa begins willing her voice to be steady. “We don’t truly know what’s out there, and we’re safe aren’t we? We’re making our way, just the two of us.”

Theon turns to look at her again, his eyes knowing, and Sansa wants to curl in of herself, to throw her body into the flames to stop his face from looking at her with their terrible knowledge. 

Instead, Theon just shrugs and gets up to shuffle to the fire to fill the pot with more water from the stream. 

 

Sometimes Sansa stares at Theon. Tries to reconcile the brash, insecure, boy from her youth with this steady half man with whom she shares her home. It’s disorientating, how in one instance she can see a flash of Winterfell on his face, of their real home, and in the next instance see the cowering remnants of Ramsey’s plaything. 

Sometimes she catches him looking at her too. And not the searching worry his face often reads, but of the same puzzled bewilderment that she knows must be reflected in her own. The last time he had seen her, she had been a child, so innocent, so foolish. 

He can been there when that had changed.

At night Sansa dreams. She remembers being a child, longing to be married, to feel the gaze she saw in her parent’s, reflected in her own. She imagined him, her future prince, he would be a warrior, handsome and strong. Women would love him, men would admire his skill in battle and great intellect, but he’d only have eyes for Sansa. They would love each other, would kiss chastely in the godswood, pray beneath the white trees for the health of their future children. 

The closest figures she can think of, who protected her when they could, kept her safe and comfortable where possible, had been a hulking man with a burned face who rejected knighthood and an ugly imp who was known for visiting brothels. And now there’s Theon.

 

“You should sleep with me in the bed tonight.” Sansa states later in the night. 

Theon jerks his head up from his cot on the floor next to the fire. He’s holding a dagger and facing the door, and Sansa’s heart tightens in her chest. She knows he stays up late, watching, waiting: they both know this peace can’t last forever.

“What?” Theon chokes out.

She sighs impatiently, pushing her long hair over her shoulder.

“It’s the coldest it’s been in weeks and we’ve done this before. For warmth.” Sansa watches her visible breath pointedly. 

“Alright.” Theon nods slowly, and eyes the door again. 

Sansa turns, slipping her aching body back underneath the heavy blankets. Her limbs are already cold and shaking from their brief journey from the room. 

Theon slips into the room silently, and they watch each other in the moonlight as he walks towards the bed. The bed is large, too big for one person, and Sansa can’t even feel Theon as he settles in beside her. 

“I don’t really think I’ll sleep.” She says quietly. 

“You should.” Theon mumbles in the darkness.

“You worry too much.” Sansa bites back. 

“We can’t stay here forever.” Theon sighs out.

“You don’t think I know that?” Sansa jerks up in the bed, the covers falling from her chest. “That we’re living on borrowed time?” 

She collapses back against the sheets, shoulders shaking. Theon is silent and Sansa watches the light of the moon filtering in from the window make shapes against the wall. 

“Sansa,” Theon begins. “I know why you don’t want to go to the Wall.”

Sansa says nothing, her eyes trained on the moonlight. She imagines it’s liquid movement is a living a stream, if it just turns it could swallow her up, wash them both away. 

“Sansa,” Theon says again, “Maybe there’s someone at the wall who can help you, who knows how to -”

“No.” Sansa says quietly. “Theon please.”

Theon is silent for so long that Sansa think he might have fallen asleep, tries not to let the envy overwhelm her at the thought. 

“I remember the water,” Theon begins quietly. “I know it’s impossible, I was so young, but I remember it. It smelled like...salt, and the way the air does after a storm - wild. It was so grey, so blue, massive, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. I used to dream that a giant wave would come, with fish and shells right in it, and it would fall on Winterfell and I’d be the only one who could swim and I’d teach everyone else. And after it settled, Winterfell would be an island in the middle of the ocean.” 

Theon is quiet again for a moment, and Sansa listens to the cat’s nails click against the floor as it walks around the cabin. 

“I don’t know why I dreamt it.” Theon continued, “I think I thought the wave would make everything small in comparison, me being a Greyjoy, you and the rest of them being Starks. It wouldn’t matter on the Island. Nothing would.” 

“And you could fuck all the whores you wanted.” Sansa mumbled.

Theon barked out a laugh, so sudden in the stillness that Sansa let out a small laugh of her own.

“I did care a lot of about that back then,” said Theon “But that wave didn’t come and I’m a Greyjoy and you’re a Stark, Sansa.” 

“I don’t think I get the moral.” Sansa muttered peevishly. “Do you think this cabin is my island?”

“And everything still matters doesn’t it?” Theon pressed, “You’re still...it’s still going to happen just because we’re the only ones here.”

Sansa said nothing, sighing into the bedsheets. 

“If it lives I want to throw it away, to let it die,” said Sansa, “do you think they’ll let me, Theon? Will Jon?”

“We’ve been here for months, Sansa,” stated Theon, “I won’t let you die. Even if you want me too.”

Sansa scoffed. Turning so she was facing Theon on the bed, she could make out the pale sharpness of his cheek in the semi darkness.

“I have no interest in dying, Theon.” Sansa watches Theon’s neck move as he swallowed. “Just give me more time, please? At least until it gets warmer.” 

Theon sighed.

“It’s not going to get any warmer, Sansa, winter is coming.”

They were quiet for the rest of the night.

 

When Sansa wakes in the morning, Theon is gone, the stove cackling outside the small room. Sansa sighs, brushing her fingertips over the swell of her stomach, the taunt firmness of it. She pushes her fingers in, her nails digging hard until the pain makes her gasp. She never knew she could be so disgusted by her own body. 

“Sansa,” Theon started, out of breath and pale in the doorway wrapped up in a winter shawl. “There’s someone on the road.” 

Sansa’s heart pounds in her ears as she rises from the bed, grabbing her winter cloak from the hook by the door. Theon is already snuffing out the fire with snow, the door barred and Theon’s sword hangs heavy from his belt. Sansa grabs the dagger off the table before ducking underneath the window, only lifting her head to peer through a small slit in the curtain. 

“They are about half a mile down,” Theon says breathlessly, “I don’t even know if they will come this way but -”

“Better to be safe,” Sansa finishes. “Theon -”

“I know, Sansa.” 

Sansa nods at him. They both agreed: they won’t back to Ramsey alive. 

It’s nearly silent in the cabin as they wait, crouching down together in the early morning light filtering in through the curtains, Sansa’s knee protesting at the position. Sansa thinks about their home they’ve worked so hard to build, their meager furniture Theon had built, the spoons and mugs they had carved, the clothes they wore that Sansa had made from the extra linen. 

She wanted to cry. 

 

They heard it then - the gentle tread of horses against the crunch of snow, the murmur of men’s voices. 

Sansa presses a hand against her belly, stilling the nervous flutter that spreads across her stomach, the gentle reminder of life. 

Soon we might both be dead. She thinks.

The voices are closer now, Sansa can make out the subject of their conversation: something about dragons.

Theon is sweating despite the winter chill, his hands grip the sword so tightly that Sansa can see his hands shaking. His eyes are clear and hard and Sansa knows he’ll do what it takes.

“You reckon someone’s been staying here?” One of the voices says lowly. 

They are in front of the house now, Sansa can feel her heart in beating loudly in her ears; she’s sure they must be able to hear it. 

“Maybe, I don’t remember that wood being there before.” 

“Hello?” One of the voices calls. “Anyone in there?”

They listen to the sound of one of the men dismounting, his feet landing hard against the snow. There’s a thump at the door, the sound of a latch being tried. 

“Hello,” the voice repeats, “if yer in there just say so!” 

“Yeah,” another voice yells, “this here is property of the Night’s Watch!” 

Sansa and Theon’s wide eyes met before Sansa shook her head quickly.

Better to be safe. 

“We’re looking for Sansa Stark!” The man’s voice said loudly, “Some lady came telling us she had escaped Winterfell, we’re just trying to find her and take her to the Lord Commander.” 

Theon’s eyes grow impossibly wider and the man outside begins pounding on the door in earnest. 

“Alright!” Theon yells out to Sansa’s dismay. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”

The man outside sighs loudly. 

“Is there a lady with you, we’re only looking for Sansa Stark.” 

“No,” Theon begins, “I’m alone but I think I might have seen her. I won’t tell you where she went until you prove you’re from the night’s watch!”

There’s the sound of mumbling and something be thrown to the grown, Sansa wipes her sweaty palms against the side of her robe as her and Theon exchanged anxious glances. 

“Alright,” the man begins, “This here is a letter from Jon Snow that says ‘your mother used to force you and your sister to work on the same fabric to help you get along.’” 

Sansa turns wide eyes to Theon’s, who stares back at her for confirmation. She nods slowly.

“Alright,” Theon begins, “We’re going to come out.”

Theon rose carefully from the wall, making his way to the heavily barred door, sword still ready in his hand.

For a wild moment Sansa thought about taking the dagger in her hand plunging in into her own heart, digging in until she felt the tight muscle disintegrate, felt the hot blood flow from her body. 

She reached out, gripped Theon’s forearm as he turned to look back at her with wide eyes. 

Sansa was crying, she could feel her shoulders shaking as the wetness cooled her hot cheeks.

“Sansa,” Theon began. “We have to go, you know that.”

She nodded but her didn’t loosen her hold. 

“It’s just that...We’re leaving.” 

Theon stilled, glancing around the small cabin in understanding. 

“I know, Sansa but it couldn't be home. Not really.”

“Winterfell is home.” Sansa whispered. 

Theon nodded, reaching his other hand around to grip hers.

“And we’ll get it back.”

Theon turned to unbar to door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This is turning into a bigger story than I had originally intended.

Brienne of Tarth said nothing as Sansa disrobed in front of her to step into the hot bath Brienne had drawn for her. Brienne wasn’t a servant, wasn’t even a proper knight, but she had sworn herself to Sansa and apparently she thought the best way to serve her was to help her get clean. Sansa wasn’t going to argue with her.

It had been months since she’s been able to lay down in a tub, to have hot water and oils available for her to soak in. Back at the cabin, they had heat the water up in a pail and used the warm liquid to wash the dirt from their bodies. Theon has promised to build her a tub out the leftover wood but Sansa had refused. One way or another she knew she wouldn’t be there long enough to use it properly.

Now, she lay under the water’s warm pull, feeling her aching muscles relax for the first time since they’d made it to the wall. She trusted Brienne. Trusted her firm hands and gentle eyes, the solid way she stood next to Sansa, shielding her from the prodding eyes of the men of the Night’s Watch. She knew they wouldn’t hurt her, not while Jon was there, but she appreciated it anyway. 

“My lady,” Brienne began. “forgive me but does anyone know?” 

Sansa didn’t bother asking what she meant. The swell of her stomach projected from her middle like a parasitic growth. Sansa gently rested her fingers against it as the hot water swirled around her thin body.

“No.” Sansa answered after beat, taking in her naked form in the candlelight. She was too thin, too pale, the scars that riddled her body making her look like an unfinished patch quilt. She couldn’t believe the being in her body was still breathing.

 

“My lady -”

“I wish to discuss it no farther.” Sansa said briskly, pulling her knees to shield to body as best she could. 

“Yes, my lady.” Brienne said quietly. 

Sansa stayed in the bath until the water began to run cold and the chill from the storm brewing outside beat the gentle heat radiating from the fire. 

Jon had given her the room of the old maester, it’s spacious quarters leaving room for her own washroom. There was a wooden shelf lined with books and Sansa could imagine herself leafing through the brittle pages within reach of the comfort of the fire, Ghost leaning against her calves. It was nice image, but try as she might, she couldn’t feel herself ever getting comfortable in this place. 

“Tell me again about when you saw my sister.” Sansa asked turning slightly to watch Brienne in the firelight. 

Brienne smiled slightly before leaning back further in her chair. 

“Well, she was with that fellow -” 

“The Hound. Sandor Clegane.” Sansa smiled to herself at the thought. Arya and the Hound, how small Westeros truly was.

 

Sansa lay awake in the bed that Jon has been kind enough to make up for her, listening to the wind howl outside. She had been filled with joy to see Jon, and still was. A brother long lost finally found again, the familiar smell, underneath the layers of thick wool and sweat, of family. 

Jon had looked at Sansa like Theon had, questioning, trying to reconcile these two Sansa’s in his mind. What a strange creature she had become and how little of her he knew anymore. But Theon understood what Jon never would - sometimes what is broken can never be repaired. 

She could make out the form of Brienne in the cot near the door, her sword visible in the half light of the moon. 

Sansa rose from the bed quietly, watching Brienne’s chest rise and fall steadily as Sansa’s feet touched the cold floor. 

She quickly wrapped a thick cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood up over head head and fastening the belt around her thick middle. Sansa paused at the doorway, goosebumps pimpling her arms as she tried to will herself out the room and into the unfamiliar dark.

“Want me to accompany you, my lady?” 

Sansa started, whirling around to see Brienne sitting up in her cot, no hint of sleep in her face.

“I - yes,” Sansa began, “I’d like you to take me to see Theon.”

 

The castle was quiet but the men of the night’s watch were visible at every turn, lounging together in rooms for a game, standing in the cold watching the land below over the edges of balconies. Sansa avoided eye contact, following Brienne’s quick steps as Podrick followed the two women from behind. 

Theon’s quarters were guarded, two men stood at the door, their swords resting casually by their sides.

 

Jon had been furious when he’d seen Theon, had made to hit him before Sansa stepped in. Explained that he had been her savior, her protector, keeping her alive all these months in the cabin beneath the frozen hillside. But Theon was still a traitor and Jon’s mercy only spread so far.

 

“The lady would like to see the captive.” Brienne addressed the men, her voice bore no argument.

The guards shuffled, exchanging looks before one of them narrowed their eyes, turning to eye the women skeptically.

“Well,” he began slowly. “I’m not sure the Lord Commander would like that…”

“I don’t care what he would like,” Brienne stated firmly. “The lady would like to see Theon Greyjoy.”

The pair exchanged looks again before nodding to each other. 

“I guess it would be alright…”

“Good,” said Sansa, “Glad that’s settled.”

Ignoring the guards she stepped forward, Brienne at her side, and opened the door to Theon’s room.

It took a moment for Sansa’s eyes to adjust in the sudden darkness of the room, there was a small fire, but the light didn’t reach the surrounding walls. 

The room was much smaller than Sansa’s, with a tiny bed and a square of wood that passed for a desk. Seated on the bed, dressed in the same clothes they had travelled in, was Theon.

His eyes were wide and glassy, staring unseeingly at the door where Sansa stood.

“Brienne,” Sansa said quietly, “I’d like a moment with Theon please. Alone.”

She felt Brienne stiffen beside her before she gave a quick nod and exited the room. 

Once the door was shut behind her Sansa stumbled forward, moving to sit next to Theon on the small bed. He jerked slightly at her presence before turning his face to look at her, his eyes focusing slowly on her face.

“Hello,” Sansa said quietly. She tried to smile, but her mouth felt funny, like her muscles didn’t know how to listen to her mind.

Theon gave her slight quirk of an eyebrow before muttering, “You look well. Better than before.” 

Sansa smiled in earnest now, turning her face from Theon’s to take on the sparsity of the room before letting her eyes fall of the fire burning steadily in the hearth.

“I’ve had a wash.” Sansa said. 

Theon nodded and Sansa could still feel his eyes on her face, unmoving.

“I have to tell Jon.” 

Sansa could feel the quiet exhale of Theon’s breathe on her face as he sighed.

“Yes.” He agreed.

Sansa reached out quickly and grabbed Theon’s hands, wrapping his cold fingers in her thin, fragile ones. She felt Theon stiffen at the contact before relaxing, letting his fingertips graze her palm.

“It’ll be alright.” He said, eyes not leaving from her face. 

“It’ll be alright when he’s dead.” Sansa said fiercely.

Theon said nothing, just gripped her hand tighter as he finally turned his face away to gaze with her into the flames. 

 

Sansa worries that her dreams will never lose their queasy nightmare hue, a leftover from Ramsey, like a virus, poisoning the air and turning the sky yellow. All her dreams feel infected with his poison.

Now she dreams of herself on the birthing bed. Faceless women tell her to push, push, push. The smell of the blood and rot is thick in the air, the faceless women hold her arms down, their hands clawed like vultures as they bruise her wrists. She dreams of what comes out of her. Sometimes it’s a sad, broken thing, a lump of body parts fused together. Other times, it’s a full ground hound like the ones Ramsey used to keep. It’s face already snarling, eyes burning red, ready to rip Sansa to pieces.

 

When Sansa awoke the next morning she was startled to find herself still Theon’s bed, their hands held loosely together even in sleep.

He was slumped up against the wall, legs extended across the floor in a position that was sure to be uncomfortable. There was still a considerable distance between them, mostly because of Theon’s body placement and Sansa couldn’t help but smile at his attempt to give her space.

There wasn’t a window in Theon’s tiny room but the door was cracked slightly, allowing for the early morning sun to form a thick line of light across the floor. 

Sansa groaned as she moved herself upright, her bladder making its urgent needs known at the shift of position. The door moved further open in an instant at her voice and Brienne’s stern face appeared in the doorway. 

Sansa gave her a weak smile before Brienne came fully into the room, Podrick standing in the hall behind her.

“Can you walk, my lady?” Brienne asked softly, eyeing Theon’s still sleeping form warily. 

“Yes,” Sansa breathed out through gritted teeth and Brienne helped her to standing position.

“Good,” Brienne said briskly, “I think it’s best to return to your quarters before anyone sees you.”

The walk back was quiet and Sansa breathed in the icy clarity of the morning air, letting the coldness refresh her tired heart. 

Soon they were back in her room, and Sansa made quick work to relieve herself before settling back into the large chair in front of the still burning fire. 

“I don’t presume to know the nature of your relationship with the prisoner,” Brienne began slowly. “But I’m not sure it’s wise to keep visiting him during the night.”

Brienne shifted awkwardly. 

“Some might believe he is the one who fathered the child.”

Sansa started, turning her tired face to Brienne’s. Her and...Theon? She let out a startled laugh, turning back to face the flames, her shoulders shaking.

“No, I’m afraid it’s not Theon’s. He’s missing a certain needed appendage.” 

Sansa turned around in time to see Brienne’s look of horror as the implications dawned on her and Sansa had to bite back another laugh.

“No,” Sansa repeated, “We both suffered at the hands of the man who gave me this.” 

She couldn’t keep the venom from her voice as she looked down at the swell of her stomach. She hated it, hated this thing growing in her stomach, sucking the force from her body, taking from what little she has left to give.

 

A sharp rap on the door jerked Sansa from her darkening thoughts and she quickly moved to tighten her cloak as Brienne went to the door, a hand already poised by her sword. 

“It’s me,” Jon said through the door.

After Sansa’s nod of approval, Brienne opened the door allowing Jon to enter the room.

Sansa couldn’t help the way her heart tightened at the sight of him. He looked so much older now, wiser, handsome. He didn’t look much like their father but the north was present in his blood and in the Stark intensity of his face. How she had missed her family.

“Sansa,” Jon began, giving her a smile. “It’s good to see you.”

Sansa didn’t make a move to stand, unsure her body could support her, but she smiled back reaching a hand for Jon to clasp his own in her’s.

“How are you, Jon?” 

Jon sighed, pulling up another chair to sit beside in front of the fire, his face falling fully into seriousness. 

“Sansa, what were you doing visiting Theon in the middle of the night? I don’t trust him. I know he’s helped you but..” Jon sighed heavily.

“I know it’s hard to understand Jon,” said Sansa slowly. “ But we’ve been through much together, he’s kept me safe and kept me alive for nearly six months.”

Jon nodded, clasping his hands together in front of him. 

“And even before that,” Sansa continued, “we both suffered under Ramsey, under his cruelty. You don’t know what it was like Jon.”

“No Sansa,” Jon said, looking up at her with wide eyes. “I don’t. I hope you can tell me some of it when you are ready.”

Sansa nodded, glancing back at Brienne who was pointedly facing away in the back of the room.

“Jon," Sansa began. "I'm pregnant with Ramsey's child.”

She loosened the cloak from around her middle, letting it part around her stomach. 

Jon looked at her grimly before nodding to himself.

“Tell me again everything I need to know to defeat him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa is pregnant by Ramsey and makes it pretty clear that she does not want the baby. There are no explicit flashbacks to the torture she endured but there are some mentions. 
> 
> Title from Smother by Daughter.


End file.
